Days Like These
by Stars of Artemis
Summary: Being a bridge is something they could never understand. Extraterrestrial contact is something they can't begin to imagine. *UPDATE: Chapter 7 is Christmas chaos. Sam gets an unexpected surprise, Sideswipe inadvertently reveals a secret, Mirage argues with everyone, Bee quotes movies, and all three bots learn something about the 'true meaning' of Christmas.
1. Days Like These

The night air is cool on his skin and in his throat, the pavement rough beneath his feet and still holds a shadow of warmth of the sun that long ago set beyond the horizon. He thrusts his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, head and heart heavy as the stars glimmer overhead.

It's days like these that make him wonder where he would possibly be if things were different. If great grandpa Archibald had never set foot on thin ice, if the glasses, old and unwanted by his father and seemingly forgotten, hadn't fallen into the hands of a desperate sixteen year old boy looking to buy his first car.

His first car. That was what started all of this.

Truth be told, he couldn't possibly imagine what his life would be like if all of those things hadn't happened. He glanced up at the cold moon, the shadows on its surface dark and its craters dusky. No, he was so far down this path now he couldn't imagine where he'd be if he wasn't.

But still, he wondered.

Maybe if none of that had ever happened, he never would have broken a bone. Maybe if these strange and awesome creatures had never found him, he never would have fallen from a building, looked death in the face too many times for him to care to count, had to run through fire and brimstone and ashes, never would have had been faced with the guilt that thousands of people's lives had been ended on his fault.

Because really, a few broken bones he could deal with. But it was that last part that always really choked him up in the middle of the night in cold sweat and made it impossible to get back to sleep.

Maybe he never would have had to make so many impossible choices. Maybe he and Mikaela would still be together.

Days like these were what shook his confidence down until he felt like he couldn't breathe. Days like these, when he felt like he was being crushed from all sides and pressed down on till he suffocated, when he couldn't get a single right word in or a single right fact straight, when he felt like he was fighting an endless, loosing tide of blood in a white suit and silk tie…these were the days when he wondered if their coming here was really for the good of all, or if humans were just too stupid and prejudiced to even be worth saving.

Days like these he didn't just loose confidence in himself. He lost confidence in all of humanity.

And still, everyone looked to him to make it right.

He knew what some people thought out there, all of the obsessive psychos or even a few envious, normal kids. _Look at him. That's the Robot Boy. That's the hero. If only it had been me…_

They are so wrong.

There's more to this life than just the plasma cannons and the gunfire and running in through all hell to save the day; there's more than just leather upholstery and gleaming paintjobs and brilliant robots and a national guard and all that glitters.

Being a bridge is something they could never understand. Extraterrestrial contact is something they can't begin to imagine.

There are days when he will be so furious that he can't make people _understand _that he wonders if Megatron id dead, because he seems to be channeling his spirit. There are days when he feels so ashamed that he can't look Bumblebee in the optics, days when he gets so scared that he feels his heart stop before he knows that NEST made it back to the country, safe. He's stuck alone on this tiny little island, between two worlds, and he's just a kid and he can't do this and everyone expects him to hold the bridge up that is slowly crushing him under. And the only one he can ask for advice is currently in South America, chasing a Decepticon spy with nicks in his energon blades and warlike-focus in his righteous heart.

This isn't a joyride. This isn't a perfect little gang that is a secret to the world anymore or even safe from it.

What they have is far from perfect.

What they have must be enough.

Sam rubs his face wearily as he quietly crosses the lawn, rough stumble scratching beneath his fingers. Sometimes, he can't help but wonder.

Bumblebee is already transformed when he steps inside. It's dark, the space only lit by the moonlight streaming in through the tinted and bullet proof garage windows.

He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't stop to say hello.

He just walks right over as settles himself on a high stool, hands still in his pockets, and begins to talk.

He tells him everything. His overwhelming fears, his overwhelming doubts, his shame for his own race, his lack of belief in himself, his job, his ex girlfriend, his guilt, and his overwhelming fear of failure, because he knows and this scout knows that no matter who falls, they _can not fail_. He talks and talks and talks, until the moon has reached the peak of its arc in the sky, those little, deep blue lights watching him the whole time.

He can't talk back. Even if he did, maybe he wouldn't know what to say. But it doesn't matter, because all Sam really needs is someone to listen, for once, someone to understand, _for once_, someone who knows him better than he knows himself and sees him as more than just a liability to the Alliance if lost or a powerful political ally to gain.

At last he falls silent, his voice waning and dying in the dark, and he looks up at those optics, waiting to be judged, because in this business now, that's all he ever knows.

But no judgment comes. The Autobot just holds his stare, his face so expressive and so kind and so open that Sam feels his shoulders relax, as if a great burden has been lifted off of them, and he realizes it was stupid to think Bumblebee would ever judge him in the first place.

"I just…I just wish someone would tell me what to do." Sam says into the silence, looking down at his hands. "I just wish I knew…everything around me feels weird, like its just not happening, and I just want someone to tell me what's the right thing. Simple. Easy. Like kindergarten." he laughs sadly and shakes his head.

It's quiet for a while. And then slowly, a soft, easy tune begins to flow out of Bumblebee's speakers, rising slowly until Sam can hear the words.

"_And I'll be here by the ocean, just waiting for proof that there's sunsets and silhouette dreams. _

_All my sand castles fall like the ashes of cigarettes and every wave drags me to sea. _

_I could stand here for hours just to ask God the question, 'Is everyone here make-believe?' _

_With a tear in His voice, He said, 'Son, that's the question.'Does this deafening silence mean nothing to no one but me?"_

Sam snorted and then laughed, whipping a tear away from his eyes. The song is kind of sad, but it's understanding, and that's what he needs right now more than anything. And with that put in perspective, everything else starts to click in place, like it always does with Bee.

If none of this had ever happened, he would probably still be where and who he was all those years ago; a skinny, unconfident, smart-mouthed kid that knew right from wrong better than anybody but couldn't find the confidence in himself to always follow through with it. Not bad, just…incomplete. He had known who he was then, and he knew who he was now.

If none of this had ever happened, he wouldn't be the person he is today- and even with all that had gone down, that's a person he knows will do the right thing and will never, ever give up. He never would have met his best friend in the whole world, someone who understands him better than anybody on the planet ever could. He probably never would have dated Mikaela in the first place; he never would met _them_.

Things aren't perfect. Maybe what they have never will be.

But it is the way things are, it's they may they were meant to be, the world is still standing, and they're still together. And, as he smiles up at the giant robot in front of him, guardian, sports car, and friend, he knows in his heart that he wouldn't have it any other way.

Outside, the half-moon still hangs suspended in space, darker than ever, but maybe that's what makes it all the more brighter, too.


	2. Never Regret

It still puzzled Sam when people got freaked out- _bad _freaked out, after meeting the Autobots. And it confused him even more- angered him, actually- at how people could just _not _get along with them. How Galloway could look right into the fathomless optics of Optimus Prime, or hear his voice, and still think he was tied hand in hand with the enemy, just made no sense.

True, Sam himself had been freaked out at first. He acknowledges that, as he sits next to his dad's workbench in the garage, astronomy summer homework that he should be doing spread out in front of him, while really watching Bumblebee tinker with a small radio antennae. The scout is trying to wire it so that they can pick up the radio frequencies of NEST anytime Lennox or Optimus need their help- and Sam really hopes it works.

But still, after seeing Bumblebee for what he was- what he really was- he found in himself that he could not be afraid. All that had been inside of him, when Mikaela asked if he was crazy, was steady acceptance and, well…fascination.

They were a giant race of Autonomic Robotic Organisms from the planet Cybertron. They were wicked-cool, twenty-foot plus alien warriors that defended the universe from harm. And they were his best friends.

How could that dumb-ass Galloway still think they were the cause of all that was wrong in the world? How could anyone?

Because he knows there are more of them out there. People who will never understand, people who will never accept, even _though_ they've done more good in this world than any of those idiots have done put together in a lifetime.

True, it isn't easy being friends with the Autobots, he muses. There are drawbacks that hurt almost as much as never knowing them. He watches Bumblebee now, playing with the radio and making those little sounds that are uniquely _him, _like a little kid messing with a Rubix Cube, and knows that at any moment if Bee's not careful, he'll get ripped apart in battle before he could blink-even thought Bee himself is far from defenseless. Then there was that time when he had to watch as Optimus got his spark stabbed out of him from behind by Megatron and blasted into the air, while that noble leader's last dying words were only in concern for Sam's safety, despite the fact that everything that had happened was Sam's fault. There's the isolation, the enemies- he thinks of Simmons in his _Aloha! _boxers, handcuffed to a light post- and the constant stress of having the weight of two worlds crashing down on your shoulders, and of running through a city or a blistering desert with some ancient artifact that inexplicably found you in your hand while all hell in plasma fire and sabot rounds opens up the earth around you.

Yeah, there are drawbacks.

But the good outweighs the bad so much that he wouldn't have it any other way.

He could take the desert heat of Giza as long as it meant he could sit in Bumblebee's cab and floor it till boy and car were just a bright streak on the horizon. He could endure - and has- the scars from Megatron's cannons as long as it meant he could hear Optimus' newly risen again. It was all worth it- and the better, stronger person he has become because of all of it acknowledges that every day.

And he knows he isn't the only one changed- Lennox, Epps, Maggie Madsen and Keller, and Leo, and even Simmons- all of them have changed because of those warriors. Hell, Lennox and Epps spent so much time with them- on and off duty- they were practically as much as one of them as Sam himself, and people who knew them could see it.

How anyone could think they did anything wrong by this place was ridiculous. Because once you got to know them, and saw what they really were, you were never the same. In fact, Sam thinks, it is pretty much impossible to meet the Autobots and _not _change after that. They just open your minds so much- to new realizations, and to other worlds, and make him so grateful every single day for what he has, he knows he will never regret knowing them. He was proud to be the Alienboy, the robot-rep, the bridge between their two worlds. Because with them by his side, he knew he could take it.


	3. Iridescent

The little radio sitting on the nightstand is the only sound playing in the room. The melody is soft, slow, the piano keys resounding carefully one by one. And he's sitting on the bed, fingers interlaced, elbows on his knees, hands pressed against his mouth. Listening, but at the same time, not really.

_/When you were standing in the wake of devestation…_

_When you where waiting on the edge of the unknown._

_With the cataclysm raining down, insides crying save me now._

_You where there impossibly alone…/_

He knows he'll never be able to go anywhere alone ever again.

He's had too many close calls, too many rough incidents, too many bullets and missiles that went _just _over his head, too many plasma-cannon shots that were aimed _just _too high.

He wouldn't even be sitting here now if the Prime's hadn't had a higher purpose for him.

Sitting here, on his bed with the clean white sheets, the pale sunlight falling all around him and the sounds of the city almost totally muted through the thick walls, it's easy to forget. Forget that just across the country, Chicago still lays in ruins. That just down the street, the Lincoln Memorial is sitting without the Lincoln. The sunlight bleaches everything out of his vision, he can't see anything but the brightness. It's almost like heaven.

After Mission City, they wondered. The Soccent soldiers were concerned, the government officials paranoid, that he would have a breakdown, that he would never go back to a normal life, that one day he would stumble out onto the streets with glassy eyes, grabbing at people's shirt collars as they passed by and babbling about some alien robot spiraling out of the sky. But he had been adamant- all he'd ever wanted was a normal life, and damn well he was going to get it, no matter what any Decepticons had to say about it.

And then Giza had come around, and the concern doubled. World Fugitive Number One- the cause of seven thousand deaths. The boy who had gotten his brain scanned by a probe-bot and had litterally been at the claws of Megatron before barely being saved- and then had to watch his savior's spark get blasted out. Running through the Decepticon front line, finding the Matrix, dying- they had been certain he would be ruined.

But he wasn't. He was- if it was possible- changed for the better. He realized what he had mistaken as abnormality was the ability to be extraordinary. And he had accepted it.

But now? He's tried to go back to a life- three times. Third time's the charm? No, probably not. Last time was worst than the first, so he's given up on that department completely. If Lazerbeak hadn't crashed his wingspan in his office, he would have surely been dead, Big Plan or not.

And now, with around eighty Decepticons still on the loose around the world, being responsible for the death of Megatron (the first, anyways,) reigniting Optimus, and leading the first wave of resistance into Chicago, he knows he's prime target number one, and he knows that scares the crap out of Bumblebee. Optimus handles it better- but he still hasn't stopped paging him at least once a day, neither had Ratchet, and Sam's pretty sure Will has been having him followed.

He has seen enough destruction to shake the world. He's the human arch-enemy of any living Decepticon out there, because even though he's just a messenger, it's the messenger that always brings the first of whatever's to come, and not only that- he's a symbol, a symbol of union between their two species on one planet, and too close to the Autobots for anything to be coincidental anymore. He knows it, Bee knows it, Will knows it- hell, everyone does, except his parents, and that's only because he's knocked the fear of God into anyone who thinks of opening their mouths about it around them.

But here, sitting in the sunlight, it's so easy to forget. So easy to forget that he's in danger now more than ever- until every last Decepticon on Earth is hunted down. And that could take years, if they even ever find them all.

But he doesn't think about any of that, not right now, not completely. The stress, the pain, the worry from the last few days- it all fades. It's washed away in the brilliant sunlight, and his mind, working at a blissfully slow, almost crawl of a pace, only registers a half-thought or a flickering image, choosing whatever flits behind his eyes.

His cell phone buzzes, nestled between the folds of the comforter, and suddenly the peaceful world shatters. He ignores it, knowing without looking that it's probably Charlotte Mearing scheduling another follow-up in temporary political hell. He doesn't even glance at it.

After a while, the phone goes silent, and he knows that if he doesn't answer it soon, she'll have a search party out looking for him, thinking he's been abducted by Decepticons again.

He sighs. They never forget things like this that happen- if anything, the pain and the frustration and the worry teach them all something, about how precious everyday life is, and friends. He never really appreciated Ironhide's steady drawl, even after seeing Jazz get ripped apart, mainly because Ironhide was just so powerful and just _there_, it was like trying to remove a mountain. You just couldn't. And now, after Chicago, he knows that the friend's he's trusted before have an even deeper bond of trust that run between them; Epps following him all the way out to Chicago, Simmons taking him to that underground bar, Will jumping onto the end of that line with him…

They have been tried three times. And each time, they have come out stronger.

So no, it's not these kind of things he forgets in empty, peaceful moments like this, and it's not things like this that he ever tries to. Remembering the war makes the peace all the more wonderful. It's not even the endless briefings or follow-ups afterwards that he blocks out.

It's the danger that he knows he's always going to be in afterwards. It's the fact that he's more precariously perched in life than he's willing to admit; it's that he may never see any of his friends again if he makes one wrong move. He forgets it, Carly forgets it, even Bee forgets it sometimes, though eh remains ever-alert, because that's just the best way they can carry life on, and he knows it. You can't always remember things like that, can't always be thinking about them, or you'll go crazy. So he just sits there in the white sunlight, and though he feels like he's ignoring the due date of a test paper or the safety rules on a roller coaster, he lets it go. Builds a wall around it. Cause sometimes, that's what you have to do.

His phone comes to life again- only this time it's beeping, some weird glitch Bumblebee planted in it, so that no matter what Sam had it set on, he'll always hear that tone if the Autobots are trying to contact him.

Without a thought, he snatches up the phone.

_/En route to the apartment. Get ready for 14:00 meeting. Want me to get you a cheeseburger?/_

He smiles, and quickly sends a reply back. Yes- he's starving.

He sighs and snaps the phone back shut, and then slides it into his pocket.

Sometimes, it is better to ignore the world around you, and just focus on what's going down right here, right now, if only for a moment. He stands and stretches. Sometimes, it's okay to forget half of reality, that part that's the hardest to hang on to, if for only a second. It helps braving the storm and the dark that much better.

_/Remember all the sadness and frustration._

_And let it go…_

_Let it…go…/_


	4. Guiltless

The day grows steadily darker outside the windows of his and Carly's garage. The occasional honk of a horn and steady hum of the streets filters in through the thick walls, muted, but audible.

He sits on a work bench that they never use, unconsciously rubbing his thumbs together, hands clasped, as he thinks. Bumblebee is sitting there as a shiny new Camaro, and sensing his friend's need for silence, hasn't said anything.

Sam knows that sooner or later Bee's going to snap. It's just a matter of when. Then maybe they'll talk like they used to in California, in his parent's massive, sweltering garage with the worn, grey wood and the sunlight that streamed through the rafters, making the dust particles dance and fall like feathers. It's new here, in D.C- smaller garage, brighter, and cleaner- not to mention air conditioned- but Bee's still the same, the one constant that never changes. It was like that when he sat in Sam's apartment after he got attacked by Lazerbeak and the NEST gate guards. What a refreshing dose of reality that had been for him then- nothing like having a giant robotic alien around to keep you on your toes. But neither one of them is talking, and the silence stretches on.

He doesn't even know why he came down here- not to talk, exactly, maybe just to think. He can't do it upstairs with Wheelie jabbering away, hiding his hurt for Brains' absence by flipping noisily through the channels and cursing at whoever is on. He can't think in the big, bright, empty space where their bed is- he feels like his thoughts are echoing off the walls and being thrown right back at him, or absorbed and noted by some stranger.

So he came down here. And here he sits, thinking. About something that didn't even register until an hour ago.

Dylan.

He had other things on his mind the whole time during Chicago. The city crumbling around him and beneath him, the heat of plasma cannons blasting over his head and the screeches of missiles, the rapid fire of machine guns and the soldier's heavy voices, and the overwhelming fear and desperation to make this planet safe for his family, for his friends.

And then…_Dylan_.

He's not a murderer. But he's still a killer.

And funny enough, that's not what bothers him.

"_Baby_, tell me what's on you mind." sang Bee's radio.

Sam almost smiles. "Just…stuff. It's nothing to worry about, okay Bee?" he stands and walks over, patting the hood of the car as he makes his way around it, heading for the door.

Before he can get there, the Camaro starts moving and Sam backs up as at last, with a noise like blades sliding out of sheaths, Bumblebee is crouching in his small garage, blue eyes bright and earnest.

Sam settles back down on the bench, knowing if the scout is set on talking, he'd damn well better talk, unless he wants to hurt his feelings.

"That's- not the answer were looking for."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Me? I've got nothing on my mind, what about you?"

"_I got a pocket, got a pocket full of sunshine_-" He's doing this on purpose.

"Stop." growls Sam, throwing out a hand as the lyrics hit him. "Please-_stop_."

The radio goes silent with a zipping noise, and Bumblebee looks down at him, indignant.

Sam sighs. "Fine. You want to know?"

Bee nods earnestly with a curious chirp.

Sam sobers, eyes growing heavy. "I'm a killer, Bee."

The robot stares at him.

"But that's not the bad part, I guess. What's bothering me is that…it _doesn't _bother me. I don't feel guilty, and…isn't that just wrong?"

Bumblebee blinks.

"I don't know." says Sam, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck tiredly. "Maybe he deserved it. But Charlotte Mearing was right. That's not what I'm cut out for- I'm not soldier. I just…" He looks down, rubbing his thumbs together again.

"Kindergarten." Says Bee, in Sam's voice.

The boy smiles at the word from their conversation months ago. "Yeah. Kindergarten."

Bumblebee chirps again. "Sam- I know this is hard- you did the right thing, man!"

"That's what everyone keeps telling me." Sam snaps, feeling annoyed. "I get it. But I _killed _someone, Bee. And I know I've killed before now"- an image of Megatron in Mission City flashes through his mind- "and maybe that's why this doesn't feel like a big deal to me, but it _is_." He hesitates. "Isn't it?"

Bumblebee is silent, his optics wide, as if he is focused on something else.

"Bee?"

The giant robot shifts to the right, away from the garage door, turning his head as he did so.

Carly stood in the doorway.

His breath caught.

She takes a hesitant step forward, blue eyes sad and uncertain. "Sam?" she whispers.

He doesn't say anything, just stands there, radiating embarrassment and disbelief, and not quite sure what to do. Bumblebee is no help, his optics flickering from one human to the other and back again.

Finally, she breaks the awkward silence. "Do… Do you want to talk about it?"

Hasn't he already? "I am talking about it."

"I heard." she says sheepishly.

"I know." he replies, wincing inside.

Finally, she lets out a sigh, looking slightly agitated. "Sam, he's right. You didn't do anything wrong."

He shakes his head, sliding back down onto the bench again. She needs to understand. "I don't feel bad about what I did, Carly. That's just the problem. I don't feel anything. Why don't I feel anything?"

He hears her shoes on the garage floor as she comes to stand in front of him, before sliding down, perched on the edge of an ancient Mo-ped neither of them have ever used. He can feel her blue, blue eyes staring at him as she leans forward, her voice wrapping around his skin like silk. "You killed Megatron six years ago." she begins, surprising him. "And in the time you've known _them_," she glances up at Bee, nodding to him, "you know that they're people, not so different from us. And Megatron is a Cybertronian, too. He was once just like them, but then he chose the wrong side, just like Dylan did with us. That might be why, Sam. This isn't anything new. Megatron was a person, too. A psychotic, _evil _person, but he still was one. And you've done this before."

He looks up at her, staring into her impossibly blue eyes. He knows exactly what she means. Knowing the Autobots made you look at Decepticons differently. "Optimus called Megatron his brother, after all that he did…if you can believe it." Even Megatron had once been like them.

"I can." she assures him. "But don't you see, Sam that's the point. In your mind, whether you realized it or not, you've done this before. Yes, Megatron was bad," she admits, "but you did exactly what had to be done. Killing Dylan next to having to do _that_, it's no wonder it wasn't so memorable. And your conscious knows, whether you do or not, that it _was _the right thing, and you shouldn't be feeling bad about it. Have you ever felt bad about killing Megatron?"

He felt bad that he didn't _stay _dead. "No."

She stares at him with deep, penetrating eyes that question- and know- his sanity. "Then why should you feel bad about this?"

He swallows and shakes his head. "I don't know. But still, it's…" He couldn't say it, not here, in front of Bumblebee. The Autobots were people, yeah, but it was just so hard trying to imagine Frenzy or Starscream on the same plane as Dylan. The Autobots were people and deserved to be treated like them. But when it came to killing…normally you just don't put killing a person and killing a Cybertronian on the same level. It just feels different.

But now, looking at it through Carly's eyes- eyes that are already seeing so much in this world for being around them so short a time- he realizes that they're really on the same plane. And that it's not that different at all. He has done this before. And next to killing Megatron, killing Dylan was like taking down a gnat compared to a whole hornet's nest.

And Dylan, who was as much of a Decepticon as Sam was an Autobot, had just popped up in his way like that…it had just happened.

"I know. I know." Carly says, resting a reassuring hand on his knee. And then she pauses, seeming to think again. "Do you remember how Optimus fought in that forest battle that you told me about, to save your life?"

As if he'd ever _forget_. "Clearly."

"Those Decepticons were as human to him as I am to you, Sam. They were once his brothers. And he fought them to a brutal death to protect what he knew was right." She smiles. "Optimus is a saint. He doesn't think himself as one, but he is. Without him, we wouldn't be standing here to talk about this. He is such a good person, but when we're in danger, he will take down anyone he has to, violently, to protect us. Tell me what were you thinking of when you hit Dylan."

He looks into her eyes, remembering it all in flashes. "The Pillar. And the world. And you."

Her gaze is as steady as the sun. "You weren't angry at him."

"I was that night."

She doesn't hesitate. "Why?"

Sam blinks in surprise. "Because he tried to _kill _you. Because he made a spy for the Autobots." He can't look at Bumblebee.

"See?" Carly demands, shaking him a bit. "Optimus does what he does because he loves us, the Autobots, and NEST, and you, so much that he'd kill anyone who tried to threaten us and peace we protect. And you've never batted an eyelash at that. You killed one person- and probably not even on purpose- because you were protecting us, Sam. Me. Bumblebee. The world. You didn't go after Dylan; he stood in your way. He sought you out, and he was cowarding little bitch that got exactly what he asked for." she snarls, and he knows she'll never forgive his ghost for what happened. "This doesn't bother you because it _shouldn't_. You are guiltless, just as you should be."

But that comparison is just a little too much for him. "I'm not Optimus, Carly."

"No. But whatever Charlotte Mearing says, you are a hero."

No, no he's not. But everything else she says just makes so much sense now, that he's surprised he hasn't seen it before.

Wow. This girl really is something.

"Bee?" he says, turning to his guardian.

"_I've seen fire, and I've seen rain- _I've been over the hill and back again, kid, it's-no deal!" he shrugs his massive shoulders. "What she said." says a D.J.

Sam smiles. And then he reaches over and takes Carly's hand in his, and squeezes it gently. "Sorry. I guess I've been moping."

She smirks back at him. "Not really, but you will be soon."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Your parents are here, and you've got a meeting with the Chinese government at ten and another with Mearing at twelve."

His smile slips off his face; she laughs. "You've _got _to be kidding me."

She smiles and stands, tugging on his hand. "C'mon, mister Future Ambassador. Let's get you looking good for the world." she folds his collar over, then steals a quick kiss.

He smiles down at her then glances up at Bee.

"Aw, go on, go on, I ain't watchin!" his radio exclaims, and he waves his hands.

Sam laughs; Carly grins. "I'm starting to _really _like this bot."

"Trust me, once the shock of him being an alien wears off, you'll see he's just like the rest of us."

Bee made a rude noise.

Carly smiles softly and links her fingers between his and pulls him towards the door of the garage to go out and face the world. Right as they reach it, though, Sam glances back and locks eyes with Bumblebee. And in that look, he expresses what could never be described in words; gratitude, appreciation, and everything else that he always feels after these little conversations of theirs in garages.

Bumblebee simply nods in return. Being one who has lost his voice for years, he doesn't need words to understand. He just knows.


	5. Wildcard

There was something of a shortness in the manner of the robot that stood before him, but then Sam Witwicky and Will Lennox had given him the utmost assurance that they were every bit as human in personality and feeling as any random bystander on the street. Yet…_yet_…

"We acknowledge and understand your position, Mr. President." says the infamous Optimus Prime, his blue optics as unreadable as the sea, and twice as bright. "But I assure you that the Autobots are your best, and possibly your only defense against the Decepticons."

He leans forward and rubs his chin, thinking carefully about what to say.

Prime has a point, and he'd be damned if they ignored it. He's already done away with and made a new contract for the U.S and NEST, revising a few crucial points that the Bush Administration skipped over. But there's still the concern- still the overwhelming tendency to question, for the millionth time, whether this is all really okay, whether the Autobots staying influences in any way the threat of the Decepticons.

"I understand that." he replies, "But the American people still have numerous concerns. Only the losses of life on the U.S.S Roosevelt and the destruction of Giza managed to convince them that you weren't aiming for us as well, and while I've assured the House and Congress that you aren't the threat, don't we risk danger of association?"

He would like to help these robots. He really, really would. But honestly, he's already fighting war, and America is on the verge of break down, and trying to aid in a millennia-long battle fought between advanced civilizations that have nothing to do with them in the first place?

Not only would their help be useless, it would be suicide.

"That danger you face already, given our relationship with NEST and with the sanction we were given after Mission City." says the Autobot, shifting a bit through the webcam. "And even if we had refused to fight for your species, the Decepticons would have eradicated you anyways, simply for the use of your planet's resources. Our races are intertwined, whether the Autobots leave or not, Mr. President. They were the second the Ancient Primes landed here thousands of years ago. It has come to war here, and for that I am sorry, but at this point, there is nothing you can do to avoid it."

It takes all his strength not to drop his face into his hands. Not to give in to the overwhelming truth- the truth that the signs have been saying all along.

"Very well." he tells the robot calmly. "Thank you for explaining this to me. It's about time someone did."

Optimus Prime blinks, and a brief look- confusion? Seems to flicker across his face. He can't really tell. "Thank you for believing us." he replies. "I had not expected you to be so willing to listen- or to trust."

"I trust you." he admits. "You don't really strike me as someone who would lie about this." Or about anything.

He likes Optimus. A lot.

"Then I am grateful for your confidence." he says. And there it is again; that distance, that guarded unconcern.

"You certainly deserve it." he replies. "But there's another concern that worries me- and that is the involvement of Sam Witwicky."

Finally, a reaction. He has the Prime's full attention now, and though he is as guarded as ever, his eyes are trained especially intense on his own. After a brief pause, he asks, "What about Sam?"

It's bizarre, really. The strange bond between the boy and these robots. With the black and yellow one- Bumblebee, he remembers- it was something you could feel as well as see, like the tides pulling on each other. But with Optimus, it was different. It was a mixture of mutual respect and something more. On the boy's side, nothing more than admiration and constant concern, and on Prime's, nothing less than gentle affection that made it clear he was exceedingly fond of him. That was why he was bringing this up now.

"He was even more involved this time than ever. People are going to start making the connection- many people already have. What am I supposed to tell them? And also, if Mr. Witwicky is signing on with NEST officially- which I assume he is- what position does he want? I thought it was something about politics."

"It is being discussed." says Optimus carefully. "And Charlotte Mearing and Will Lennox are certainly ready to have him, but as for the path of his career, only Sam can answer with certainty himself. The Autobots will stand behind whatever decision he makes- even if that decision is leaving all of this for good."

"But you don't want that."

Sam seems to attract Decepticons wherever he goes, even with us gone. After this week's events, I will not let him out of my sight. He will be on the top of their list for quite some time."

"I'll have a meeting with him as soon as possible, then."

"I will make sure he is aware of it."

"Thank you."

The warrior inclines his head. "Mr. President." he says, and then takes a step back from the camera.

"Optimus," he tells him, nodding.

And then the camera line is cut.

He sighs and leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers on his desk, and is left to mull over in silence what he has heard. He trusts whatever Optimus tells him on subjects about the War- even given his cold civility. When Sam first introduced them on his tour of the NEST base years ago, and it had been explained that Optimus was both a Commander in Chief and a leader himself, his respect for the robot had only grew.

He was just like him, in those terms, at least.

The more he learned of the Autobot, the more fascinated he became. And after getting to know Optimus, learning of how he lead half a planet and such a huge military, learning all the impossible choices he had to make and the things he had done- he had never stood more in awe of anyone in his life.

Here was a creature that had to be a symbol of hope in a time of utter darkness; here was a being that had never given up hope or quit fighting, even when Cybertron's last city went dark.

And to retain his character and his goodness after all of that; after battling and killing to many mechs to count and fighting a bloodless battle till the world was lost, he still remained _good_.

It blew his mind every time he thought about it. It demanded his respect, and he hoped desperately to learn from this great creature; to be for America what Optimus was once to his world.

But then there was a distance between him and the Autobot, something he wasn't sure they'd ever overcome. In fact, he had noticed, that distance was everywhere; between him and his army superiors (not that NEST had many), and the personnel- everyone.

Except for Will Lennox. And except for the boy.

There was obviously a strong friendship between Lennox and Epps and NEST soldiers from the old days, but it was harder to notice until someone snubbed an Autobot and Will blew up in their face, or until one of them nearly got hacked by a Decepticon till the Autobot came roaring out of nowhere to blast it to pieces.

But where the boy was concerned…

It was as if he was everyone's kid brother.

And now, sitting here in his office, really thinking about it for the first time, he realized it.

The Autobots didn't get close to anyone because they were _afraid _to.

Maybe _afraid _wasn't the right word. Maybe there wasn't one. But either way, the facts still fit. If these beings were as human as the boy claimed them to be, as human as he himself had seen them, then they must have felt sorrow like all humans do. And they had seen their entire planet wiped out.

Whole generations of their world had been lost. Family, friends, lovers- all gone. The Autobots and the Decepticons, in their raging war, had lost everything. And yet neither of them could never stop, least the one thing they had left be taken.

The Decepticons would never cease to be power-hungry, to try and consume everything. And the Autobot would always try to stop them.

They had probably been left behind living by everyone they knew. Here on Earth, the few that were left had already seen more losses in their dwindling ranks, and if _that _wasn't hard…

It made sense. They didn't want to get too close because they had seen too many perish. Kids, elders; it had probably made no difference in their War. That was why they seemed so cold, that was why what most people mistook for mechanical indifference was really something they did to keep more pain away.

And then there was Sam.

He didn't know why the boy meant so much to them, other than the fact he had helped save the world so often. There was an open, almost twin-like relationship between him and his bodyguard, and one of obvious friendship with the others. They never tried to hide the fact that they cared about Sam. It was almost as if they hadn't even tried to prevent it.

So why was it? Did they just like him out of coincidence? Was it because they owed each other, or was it something forged in the fires of the plasma cannons that erupted around them in battle, when they depended on each other most?

That was the one question he couldn't think a proper answer of. Maybe the Autobots themselves didn't even know. But some way or another, he had wormed his way completely into their hearts- sparks- without even trying. And they seemed to have let him do it with eyes- optics- wide open.

He's starting to see what John told him the minute he took office; Sam Witwicky was really something. Wildcard, he had said.

"Um, I was wondering if I could be their ambassador, or something." he says a week late, shrugging. "You know- someone who can sort of bridge that gap and show the world what they really are, that coexistence is possible- someone not just doing this for money or for a fancy car." He grins sheepishly. "Guess I've already got one of those."

He smiles, surprised, amazed, and impressed all at the same time. Wildcard, indeed.


	6. Turning Point

**Whim has struck again. Praise the Lord, Hallelujah.**

**Don't expect more for a while, kids. This high schooler is taking all honors and AP's, and it's kicking her butt. Severely. Please Review!**

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><p>Don't be afraid, I told Bumblebee. I'll be fine. I'm twenty one- can't I be allowed to drive on my own once and a while?<p>

I'm pretty sure I'm never going to be allowed anywhere on my own again. Ever.

It's not like I didn't _want _to drive him. How could I not? Having an alien robot warrior for a car is something you never really get used to, like a Ferrari or Escalade. But he had gotten hurt in our last D-con encounter, so I wasn't about to let him to risk his butt just so I wouldn't get lost at least once on my way, even if he was my best friend.

All the same, I wouldn't have wanted Bee there, anyway, even if it did mean the precious end to sweet freedom. Because if Bumblebee had been there, we would all be standing by the ocean, watching his silver casket sink into the choppy waves to rest beside Jazz at sea.

Yeah. He was _that _big.

Luckily, the Primes seem to have too much fun messing with our lives to allow that to happen. Yet.

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><p><em>Ratchet, <em>he thought wearily, _is going to kill me when he get's the chance._

Bumblebee banged up was bad enough, but Bumblebee on edge and anxious about him driving by himself, in an inconspicuous, non-Cybertronian silver Honda with about 73 Decepticons still on the loose is enough to put the medic to the verge of massacre, who also happens to agree along the same lines as the scout.

In Sam's personal opinion, he is taking baby steps.

He is driving to his parent's new house in Charleston, the first normal thing he's done in weeks. He hitched a ride on a NEST C-17 while Optimus played some classical tunes as a semi and he, Will, and Epps played poker in the corner, making for a perfect movie scene.

According to his GPS, he is on Highway 17 and nearing a very small bridge that runs across and over the road, like a plus sign- something that would cause backups for hours in D.C.

"Then turn left," says the little machine in a very annoying, accented, cool voice.

Sam hates that GPS.

Maybe he should have accepted a ride from Optimus, despite the fright it might give the neighbors. He wonders if his parents are freaking out already about where he is- and the mental image and ringing voices that come to mind are enough to make him reach for his phone.

As he nears the bridge, which was only about two lanes wide, maybe thirty feet high, and rushing with only a little traffic, Sam picks his cell phone out of the cup holder, keeping one hand on the wheel. He gives the screen a fleeting flicker of his eyes, catching sight of a white box- a text message- behind the blue box that always said "PRESS OK TO UNLOCK" in obnoxious yellow letters before he looks back out the windshield.

That's when he sees the truck.

It's a large brown semi with a gleaming silver grill, not a Peterbuilt, but close, with no trailer and no company logos. And it's parked on top of the bridge, in the dead center, blocking off the traffic of the lane on the side closest to him.

Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe he is just overreacting, or maybe it's because there isn't anyone sitting inside the thing. Maybe Sam is developing his own scout's sixth sense, after being involved in this for so long- and maybe that was bad. But either way, panic and awareness and the feeling that he shouldn't be anywhere near this bridge- and that maybe that text message _isn't _from his mom- fills his blood like adrenaline.

The phone falls to the floorboards and Sam grabs the steering wheel in both hands, jerking it as hard as he can to the left without a thought of traffic or legality.

Being legal doesn't mean shit if you're dead.

Too bad he didn't think to hit the brakes first.

He's pinned against the seat by gravity as the car swings violently to the side, and his foot hits he brake pedal. The car locks and stars sliding forward sideways, and before the tires can do more than scream as faint white smoke rises up and black skid lines mark his path, he hits the short concrete wall dividing the median, and feels the car jerk under itself, starting with the front.

The bumper is crushed with a crunch before it even takes to the air. He flips and flips and flips, the sky and street blurring into one through the cracked windshield. He slams his eyes shut.

He is lost in the air, having no equilibrium or direction, simply tumbling. Both ends of the car smash down at separate times, twice. Every muscle in his body is clenched tight as he tries not to move, his head smashing forward, before it is finally over. The strange whistling in his ears turns to grated scrapping, and the high sound of something shattering breaks around him. The flipping turns to bone-jarring rolling, then to sliding, and then the car balances precariously on its side before finally falling with defeat, upside down, rocking back and forth and creaking.

The first thing he is aware of, once he realizes that he's alive, is how sick he feels- like he has just ridden the Tornado at the fair with Miles again. And that his head is pounding like crazy.

Probably because he is upside down.

Slowly, half-registering what he is doing, Sam's fingers fiddle with the release on the seat belt, and there is a sharp click. He braces and arm hurriedly against the roof of the car as he falls, collapsing across the thick, dusty padding.

The world is tilting and spinning and he cant seem to stop the feeling that he's still rolling. His head hits the roof and he simply lays there, panting, trying not to loose himself in the waves that seem to be washing him out to sea.

But he's been like this too many times before to stay unaware. He blinks his eyes blearily, as everything slowly starts to swim pack into place- including the pain.

He winces as something over his left eye gives a nasty throb, stinging. His lungs feel scratched and empty- has he been screaming? The windshield has broken everywhere- there's glass all over him that tinkles as he shifts, and as he moves, his hand suddenly brushes something- his phone, obviously removed from the floorboards in the car's certain…position.

He blindly unlocks the screen, hoping to at least call for help. And when he can finally read the text message, the letters falling into place…well, at least it was all worth it.

GET OFF 17. DECEPTICON EN ROUTE TO YOUR COORDINATES. DO NOT REACH THE BRIDGE. WE ARE COMING.

-Optimus.

Don't take 17. Don't reach the bridge.

He has to get out of this car.

He swallows dryly and twists around, and tries to kick the broken and deformed door open. The door rattles, the car creaks, and then he kicks again.

The door pops open with a bad sound, and he grabs the doorframe in both hands, pulling himself half out the car. His arms are trembling so bad he stops for a second, his back hitting the asphalt, his legs still in the car, and still panting. He lets his head fall to the right, and his still slightly-disoriented eyes look to the bridge.

The truck is gone.

His heart stutters, then skips a beat, and everything becomes a bit clearer- especially the necessity to get over himself and get out the damn car. He pushes himself out the rest of the way, and grabbing onto the top- bottom?- of the car for support, pulls himself up, making it wobble. The tires are still spinning.

The noise finally hits him then- the cars honking and people shouting and horns blaring. Luckily, he had been at the front of the last red light, so all the traffic is behind him in a slight pileup-barricade instead of crushed in front of him in his tumble of chaos.

His own car is unrecognizable. But he barely has time to glance and the dented, crushed, crumpled frame, the completely smashed in engine and missing bumpers, and the jagged hole where the windshield should be, when he hears it.

That sound that always spells salvation or disaster, depending on who it's coming from.

The attack comes from the side.

Something massive moves in the corner of his vision; he turns, his head seeming to move in slow motion, in time to see the brown semi speeding down the ramp from the bridge, curving around, engine roaring. It's going to hit him straight on.

Then that sound reverberates into the air again- and the metal plates are sliding back, the center of the engine is buckling and folding, and in just a second a massive robot thirty feet high is hurtling through the air towards him.

Sam's knees seem to bend on their own accord, and gravity pulls him down to the earth, behind his car, before he even realizes what he's doing.

The Decepticon streaks overhead with a sound like a jet plane before sharply veering and slamming down into the earth, shattering the asphalt and sending chunks and shards flying in every direction. Sam rolls and crawls away from the explosion around his car, trying to put it between him and the Decepticon- but all he's got between him and a two-ton alien from hell is a destroyed Honda.

_Shit_.

He twists his head up and looks over his shoulder, across the bottom of his car (now hardly in that kind of shape). He sees it- a towering, dusty structure of weapons with glowing, hatred-colored optics. It has turned to snarl at the people screaming under the bridge.

It won't be occupied for long.

His phone. _Where is his phone? _He looks around and then under the upturned engine of the car- there. It's lying where he left it, just next to the broken hole that he climbed out of, on the opposite side of the crumpled vehicle. The side that, were he standing in front of, would block him from any escape from the massive robot. There's no way he can possibly reach it without getting blasted to plasma dust. Unless, based on that text, Optimus knows where he is. If not…

Breathing heavily, he closes his eyes tight and hits his head lightly on the back of the car. He can't think. He's dizzy. He's probably going to pass out- or die- any second now. He's just been in the worst car wreck of his life (the highway chase with the three Decepticon triplets didn't exactly count as one of _those_) and his forehead is burning, bad.

He can't do this. Not now.

A blast explodes out from behind him; bright light blooms in the corner of his vision seconds before the next bang.

The Decepticon has fired at one of the cars.

The whole thing is up in flames and everyone is running and screaming as thick black smoke rolls beneath the bridge. He can't see anyone hurt. He doesn't see anyone dead.

He really hopes it stays that way, because if not, it's all his fault. Again.

Something rumbles out of the robot's chest and through grating jaws- a Cybertronian curse, probably. He had been around Ironhide too long to _not _know the meaning.

Like lightning, red optics snap over to fix on him.

Sam jerks sluggishly away from sight.

"Come out, boy." hisses a voice. It sounds disturbingly like Starscream- only with a more ancient tone to it, like the con's vocalizers haven't been oiled in a while.

He doesn't move.

He _feels _those red optics narrowing and that jaw slowly baring into a snarl at his silence.

Something's going to happen. They can't stay like this forever.

"Very well."

The finality in that tone is alarming. And then one thick arm lashes out, and the cannon transforms again from seemingly nowhere, a red spark gleaming in its depths, trained perfectly on the retreating people.

"Wait!" screams Sam, and staggers out from behind the car.

The Decepticon's head snaps back to him. Sam watches as his face curls into a sneer, maybe at the blood on his face, or his unsteady balance, or his surrendered hands.

This one is different. This one doesn't shoot everything organic and moving in sight; this one doesn't try to unleash inferno all in one go and take him down with style.

Sam always survived those kind of attacks. Hell always passes over him. Maybe it's because he's too small to be a part of something so big, so powerful, like in Mission City; connected yet disconnected at the same time. The fire and battle moved with him like gravity; he was _holding _the epicenter of it all. Yet every blast and bullet went over his head, every Decepticon _just _managed to miss him, or moved _just _too slow. And though Giza definitely changed his ideas of mortality, that much was still true. If someone was going to kill Sam, it wouldn't be the same huge way it had happened to Jazz or Graham or Ironhide, or even Optimus.

It would be like this.

Because Sam had learned the hard way that the people on the streets, the people on the sidelines, the people that just happened to be at the very wrong place at the worst time didn't have that strange kind of disconnection that he did. They were always the ones who got hurt.

Always.

In Mission City they called it unpreventable. In Chicago they called it asked for. One they could have done absolutely nothing about; the other had been chosen, and regretted.

But the U.S.S Roosevelt? What did they call that?

Sam christened it his own glorious, selfish, and undoubtedly the worst mistake of his life. And maybe the people on those aircraft carriers weren't exactly civilians, but the ocean wasn't the only landing sight for Fallen's servants. Too many people payed for Sam's mistake.

And maybe even if he had followed Optimus, the result would be the same. The only difference is that one little word, "if", and the regret that lasts a lifetime.

He wasn't about to unleash another Judgment Day. Not even on a single lane of traffic.

_You'll never stop at one._

And this Decepticon knows that_._

To his shock, the robot pauses, almost looking surprised- as if this is a trick, as if he's only coming out because something even bigger than the Decepticon is standing right behind him.

Then he laughs.

High, cruel, and merciless, that sound scathes the air. Sam tries not to wince, and suddenly thinks of his parents, and Carly, and, with a great surge of guilt, Bumblebee.

"Foolish boy." says the Decepticon. He takes a half-step back, swinging his cannon directly at Sam's face.

That speck of red deep within his cannon suddenly looks as big as the sun.

A blazing ball of blue light, moving almost too fast for Sam to see, slams into the side of the Decepticon's head, causing his whole frame to jerk, and sending half his faceplate flying. The shot from his cannon fires, off target, and Sam falls back to the ground, mouth open in a scream lost in the sound of the bridge exploding as the shock wave slams him off his feet and into the ground, throwing him against the side of his car.

He blearily opens his eyes as the sound of metal clashing and machinery whirring and the ground trembling reach his deafened ears. He turns his head best he can and sees a second towering figure- this time in red and blue, pounding the living scrap out of the brown Decepticon.

_Optimus._

He doesn't remember how it ended. Sam's whole world seems to tilt and darken as his vision flares violently black, before subsiding back into color.

He isn't going to pass out. Not yet.

But the next thing he knows, it is very, very quiet.

The ruined ground trembles beneath him, gently, and he forces his eyes open, meeting a pair of brilliant blue ones.

Optimus kneels, forming a fist with one massive hand as he retracts his gleaming, humming energon sword, and the world get's even quieter.

"Are you injured?"

As always, his voice brings to life things like peace and security again. Sam swallows and nods, rolling onto his stomach, and managing somehow to shakily push himself into a sitting position, back against the uncomfortable surface of his contorted car.

"Not life-threatening…I think." he whispers, blinking blood out of his eyes. He looks up at Prime and blinks. "Where's Will?"

"At the base." replies the Autobot. "I wouldn't wait for him." his optics are dark on the body of the Decepticon, now just a pile of brown and silver parts beneath he bridge.

"Oh." Sam's voice cracks and dies. He can't think of anything better to say. Can't think of the words, really. And then his forehead gives a particularly nasty throb and his arm jerks with the reflex to touch it; the movement brings Optimus' eyes back to him again.

"Could you, um…take me to the hospital?" he asks, unsure how to phrase himself, and feeling slightly sheepish.

"I take it you are willing to accept a ride from me now?" is his reply, jerking his chin at the crashed Honda.

Sam just smirks, too tired to smile. "You bet." All the adrenaline is gone now. He's actually surprised he was able to move this whole time.

Optimus stands and hurriedly transforms, the process seeming to take a shorter time than usual. Obviously, he doesn't want to wait around for the camera crews.

Sam looks at the long passage from the ground to the cab of the semi. He just shakes his head. But even as he tries to get to his feet- and fails- a strong hand catches his arm and hauls him to his feet, supporting him as he sways.

Optimus' tall holoform- handsome, shocking blue eyes, cowboy hat, about forty, helps him all the way to the cab, and then up into it, before vanishing.

The door slams shut.

Sam rests his pounding head against the cool leather, thankful for the sudden silence that engulfs him in the cab.

The engine roars to life and idles.

"I am afraid," says the Autobot comander, voice seeming to come from everywhere at once, "that there was a man with a camera."

Sam looks to his right, out the window, through the glass that is already darkening protectively, hiding the inside of the cab from view. Sure enough, he's right- there is a guy with a camera and a bright red hat, standing on top of one of the cars, fixed on the semi.

Sam's throat goes dry. "They know."

"I am sorry." says the semi earnestly.

Sam just sighs and shakes his head, as the engine roars again and the truck pulls off. "Had to happen sometime." he murmurs.

They were able to deny his involvement after Giza. A battle in the desert; no one knew. The little broadcast that nearly ruined his life? Oh, just a movie trailer prank from some losers in his dorm. And no one was there to see what happened in Chicago besides every Cybertronian on Earth and NEST.

Now, his face is going to be on every news network and website, again. Because he knows they won't be able to fool the world twice.

This is the turning point. This is where the world finally knows; Sam Witwicky was involved with the Autobots from day one. Maybe this wasn't as dramatic as Chicago or anything- but once his face shows up and everyone make the connection, he knows it will be just as big.

They leave the ruin of Highway 17 behind them, the future before them, and with all the uncertainty and hope they can have. Sam closes his eyes.

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><p><strong><em><span>IMPROTANT NOTE<span>_;;; THIS TIES IN WITH CHAPTER 4 OF MESSENGER. AVALABLE SOON!**


	7. Christmas

I'm back ;).

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><p>But unfortunately, not quite back with a bang. I saw this incredible video on Facebook and was feeling in a Christmas-y mood, and it inspired me, so I wrote this. But it's not good. It's bad. Personally, I think it's really bad. I haven't written anything for Transformers in so long, so I'm pretty rusty with the dialogue, and I was super tired when I wrote this, so much so that I nearly fell asleep at my computer (you're welcome to send me a review and convince me otherwise, though, cause reviews are love and this story really needs some more and if I don't get many more, I may not keep writing so please please review).<p>

Anyway.

I hope I don't get a lot of shit for this. I'm not so insecure in my projections of tolerance and beliefs that I feel I have to write things a certain way to make other people realize that I love all religions, but I still wish I could have made this a bit more multi-cultural. Oh well. Peace, love, and acceptance to all. My focus was more on the sheer wonder I felt watching this video. There was just something in the purity of everyone joining in and believing in something and uniting together to do something so outside of our cultural norms (caroling together in the middle of a crowded shopping mall, for instance) that I felt like it was just _magic_ and something wonderful about humanity. Something beautiful. I just happened to find it this specific video. Please don't think I'm trying to say that the Autobots are in awe of one belief or anything or that I'm forcing a specific belief on you, I'm not. I'm saying that they're in awe of this wonder and unity that they saw in humanity in this specific moment, the kind their race doesn't have anymore- a lost innocence, almost. The kind you find in every person who believes in _something_- anything- so blindly, even though they have no proof it exists. So don't flame. But I feel like most of y'all who keep track of this story are pretty chill, so yay! Oh and also IT'S MY BIRTHDAY IM NINETEEN ASJKAFJALSJFR AND THIS IS MY PRESENT TO ALL OF YOU!

Link to the video is at the bottom of this story. Seriously, check it out. Whether you believe or not, the hope and wonder on people's faces and their courage in awe-inspiring.

Merry Christmas!

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><p>If Decepticons, traitorous humans, huge explosions, or his mother's wrath when he didn't call once a week didn't one day kill Samuel James Witwicky, Christmas shopping at the National mall two weeks from December 25th would.<p>

The crowds were thick and impenetrable. He had lost count of how much time he had spent waiting in lines, and the amount of times he had gotten wacked with other people's shopping bags or purses were sure to leave bruises come morning. There had been a brawl over the newest 3DS in the gaming section of Target and half of Carly's favorite stores seemed to be cleared out. The list of things he had to get were a mile long. And then there was the matter of actually shopping itself- what do you get your super-model girlfriend who has everything? Seriously, up until a few months ago, Carly had been the breadwinner in their relationship. And then his parents…well, that was whole other bag of crazy. Sam could never predict what his mother would want, and his father preferred classics that were way above his pay grade- even the current pay grade of an alien robot ambassador.

That didn't mean he didn't have any ideas, though. After frantically calling Bumblebee and asking him to hack into Carly's google searches and eBay bid history, he had at last made some progress. That conversation had gone a whole lot better than the one he'd had with his mother asking for advice about extended family shopping.

"Oh, I don't know- get him some of those Busty Beauties magazines he seemed to like giving you so much, Lord knows he could use them after _that_ divorce."

"I-I did not appreciate those magazines but I mean they were a sentimental gift, what was I supposed to do with them? Wait- no- _don't_ answer that."

"Oh please, Sam, we talked about this and if I was okay with 'my special alone time'-"

"I'm hanging up now."

"Oh and make sure to get his daughters something nice to wear, you know, something that's not Daisy Dukes or Victoria's Secret like the _rest_ of their godforsaken wardrobe- although, if you wanted to get that for _Carly_-"

He was now laden with four gigantic white bags filled with items for everyone from his first cousins to Uncle Charles, and two huge shoe boxes stacked on top of his arms for Carly (though that was just part of her present- after the hell he put her through with Chicago, she was definitely going to need something personal and sentimental, too…he was still working on that one) and was starting to feel less like he was drowning and more like he was treading water.

That didn't mean being here was any easier, though. And he kept wondering if at any moment someone might recognize him from the Fallen's broadcast or his medal ceremony- although officially, Sam Witwicky wasn't publically recognized as alien ambassador just yet. It was always like this- the worst was after Mission City. He kept wondering if people could see the experiences in him as if he were wearing them on his skin, in the fading scrape on his cheek or the scars on his left hand or the look in his eyes. Is this was soldiers felt like every time they came home from a tour and went out in civilian clothing, as if they had done so much and seen so much that a part of them was still there, wrapped up in their memories, separate from all the souls around them?

_But no- you're not a soldier. You're just the messenger, remember?_

The thoughts would fade. They always did, although spending so much time around the Autobots and NEST afterwards this time seemed to have prolonged the experience a bit.

Sam is interrupted from his musings as he squeezes suddenly through a crowd of older women and, unable to see his feet due to the boxes, in true Sam Witwicky fashion (cause this would _never_ happen to anyone else), the hero who had helped save the world _three times_ trips spectacularly over an unseen step.

He went down in a flash of white plastic with the sound of rustling bags and an unmanly yell. The left bag, full of clothes, cushions the fall of his left arm, but the right, which holds a lot more, has probably bruised his ribs. The point of a box was digging painfully into his side, and his knees sear with the collision onto the hard ground. The shoe boxes have gone flying out of his hands.

Groaning, Sam starts to get up, ignoring the snickers and stunned stares of the people parting around him like a river.

"You need some help, son?" drawls a sudden voice- a voice that he has heard before. On a radio. Coming from…

Sam's head snaps up. "_Bumblebee_?" he demands in a hoarse voice.

The blond person in front of him smiles and nods. Stunned, Sam accepts the offered hand and allows Bee to pull him to his feet.

"What are you-?" Sam breaks off when he sees that Bee isn't alone- there are two young men behind him, one that is Italian-looking and older with a suspicious glint in his eyes, and the other a black-haired jock that is a bit taller than Bumblebee.

Both are smirking at him.

"Um…"

"Don't look so stunned, Samuel," drawls the older one in a heavy Italian accent.

"Dino?"

"Hey, that was nothing compared to the tumble he took in Giza. I don't think I've ever seen a human summersault that many times in one leap."

"Sideswipe?"

Sideswipe holds up the shoe boxes. "Hey, Sam. I think I should hold on to these for a little while, kay? Kay."

"And it's _Mirage_," adds the other in a slightly snobby voice. "I figure I can trust you humans enough with my real designation now."

Sideswipe snorts. "I still can't believe you did that."

"It was a necessary precaution," is the defensive reply.

"What difference would your real name have made?" demands Sideswipe. "We still got boarded up on that rocket, didn't we? And of all the names you could give, you picked _Dino_?"

"Can we settle down, now?" Bumblebee drawls again. His mouth didn't move- where was that voice coming from?

"Eh, fine, Bumblebee," grumbles Di-_Mirage_.

"He still hasn't told them he can disappear," mutters Sideswipe.

Mirage smacks Sideswipe on the shoulder. "Don't tell!"

"Sam won't tell anyone. He had half the Allspark in his head and he didn't spill the oil. Right, Sam?"

"What are you guys doing here?" demands Sam, deciding now is as good a time as any to break in and _not_ think about the warehouse or Megatron or the probe-bot shoved up his brain. He shuffles his bags indignantly.

"See? Kid's practically an Autobot."

"My disdain for your impetuousness knows no bounds."

"Base was getting boring," says Sideswipe to Sam. "We figured we'd head out and see what all this Christmas fuss was about."

"We sensed Bumblebee's spark signature in the area and met up, but we couldn't convince him to leave the bloody parking lot."

"That's because he's my guardian," snaps Sam- though he isn't really that annoyed, especially when Bee takes half of his bags for him. "Does Lennox know you guys are out here?"

"What he doesn't know won't kill him," says Mirage. "At least- not in this case. Cause we all know that-"

"Don't" interrupts Sam. "Don't say what I know you're going to say in public. Don't."

"So we parked, and the three of us figured we'd take a challenge," continues Sideswipe. "See how far we can project our holograms."

"So _technically_ you could consider this a training retreat," adds Mirage slyly.

_These Autobots are like teenage kids _Lenox had told him. _They like to sneak out of the house every once in a while._

"And how far can you project them?" Sam asks, curious in spite of himself. "You're not just going to fizzle out on me and have the security tapes end up on national T.V, are you?"

"So far, so good," were the comforting words he got in response.

"Now come on," comes the voice from Bee again. "Let's go see- what _is_ the true meaning of Christmas?"

Sighing, but slightly lifted in spirits, Sam hefts his bags and dives back into the crowd. "Follow me."

After about an extra hour of walking around, they had gotten into the philosophical argument of the century. Mirage insisted that Christmas was about consumerism, Sideswipe said it was for the 'femmes in Santa outfits' and observant Bumblebee pointed out the children with their parents and surmised it was about making others happy. It was actually pretty entertaining.

"It's not that simple," argues Sam, enjoying himself in spite of his mounting stress levels. "It's kind of all three- but Christmas has kind of evolved over the years."

"I still say it's about the girls in the Santa outfits," deadpans Sideswipe as they make their way around the monstrous line for Santa.

"I see none of those femmes here," Mirage points out.

"You wouldn't," says Sam. "It's a mall. With kids."

"How does a 'Santa outfit' appeal to the male species, anyways?" asks Mirage in confusion. "Ratchet said that exposed skin elevates human pheromone levels." He points at the Santa in the kid's section with a set of twins in his lap. "That doesn't look very attractive. Why would any female want to impress a male by wearing the same outfit as an old overweight male with an unhealthy interest in diabetic foods, reindeer and children?"

While Sam chokes at Mirage's words, Sideswipe rolls his eyes. "It's not the _same_ Santa outfit, 'Raj. It's shorter, you know? Like the kind they wear in Mean Girls."

This declaration is followed by five seconds of stunned silence.

And then Bumblebee plays, in the voice of that turtle from Finding Nemo, "_Serious_ thrill issues, dude."

And Sam _lost_ it. He was laughing so hard Bumblebee had to hold him up.

"You've seen Mean Girls?" he manages to get out.

"Who hasn't seen Mean Girls?"

"I am so telling Will. And Simmons. And anyone else on the planet who will listen."

"Then tell us, oh enlightened one," growls Sideswipe, "What _is_ the true meaning of Christmas? You're the human here."

Sam pauses for a thoughtful moment. "It's a lot of things, really," he says. "Some would argue it's about the religious aspect of the holiday, which is its origin. But I think it's evolved to be a little more than that. I don't know. Something about Christmas is just…"

But before he can say anything more, something happens.

A powerful young voice rings out through the mall, over the crowd and up onto the open second floor and over the noise of all the chatter, catching everyone's attention. It's a beautiful voice, a strong voice, that belongs to a young Hispanic-looking woman standing near Santa's little ring and is singing.

"_Joyful, joyful we adore thee_

_God of glory, lord of love,_

_Hearts unfold like flowers before thee_

_Opening to the sun above."_

All of a sudden this lone woman is joined by others- rising from the tables, stepping out of the crowd, obviously rehearsed and quickly catching everyone's attention. People stop walking to stare, looking around in confusion, and this part of the mall goes surprisingly quiet.

"_Giver of immortal gladness_

_Fill us with the light of day."_

As the song goes on, the voices quickly attract a crowd. People begin the press around the edges of the singers- there's a lot of them, and they're everywhere, so no lines are clearly defined. People being clustering around the balcony on the second floor, eager faces peering down. Some are laughing in astonishment, and then all the phones and cameras start coming out. Sam pulls out his own and starts recording.

The first song ends, and then four men rising up on the escalator start singing "O come all ye faithful." Laughter rings out. And then something amazing happens- everyone that is clustered around starts joining in. These people dispersed throughout the crowd aren't the only voices- they are rising up all around from normal people in the usually passive crowds, and then everyone starts clapping together.

One song fades into the next, this time led by a blond woman with an angelic voice, singing "o Night divine." The song, like a lot of Christmas music, slows and takes on an enchanting, mysterious melody, beautiful and drawn out.

"_Oh hear_

_The angel voices…."_

And _everyone_ is singing. Even the teenagers with their phones standing off to the side. Even the middle school boys up on the balcony.

All of the original singers slowly sink to one knee, kneeling, looking up at the sun through the skylight. And so do some other people- a few families, a woman here or there, an old man who looks like he could barely get back up. They're _bowing_.

Sam is not a religious person. He's never been to church in his life, actually. But the scene before him…there's something in it. Something about the way everyone joins in to the song, something about the bravery of these people for singing here in front of such a crowd where awkwardness is very much a possibility. There is awe in the way people are kneeling together…the way many of them seem to believe in _something_ as one. There is _magic_ in their awe-filled eyes and in the calm tolerance in the faces of others. It is awe-inspiring and it is beautiful.

The very last line of the song is carried by that single, angelic voice, high and alone.

"_Oh night…oh night divine."_

The singers swiftly rise and make their way out of the crowd. The spell is broken, and applause rises up all around, but the singers are already gone.

Smiling, shutting his phone off, Sam turns to his companions- and pauses. All three of them are dead silent, staring at the empty center of the crowd. Holograms aren't as expressive as their real faces, but something in their expressions tells Sam that something serious is going on inside of those processors of theirs. He can see stunned shock, amazement, pain, awe…even vulnerability.

"You guys okay?"

Bumblebee turns to him and gives him a soft, gentle smile- the kind that Sam can tell is a lot deeper felt than it seems.

"I think," Mirage says quietly, "we just found the true meaning of Christmas."

"Baby Jesus?" Sam asks in shock.

"I find it in the human reception of the concept," Mirage says thoughtfully. He glances at a menorah in a nearby window. "Or perhaps in many concepts. I'm not sure what just happened, but…it was in the awe and reverence in their eyes. And in the unity as they all joined in, whether all of them have faith in one specific belief or not." He turned to Sam. "I understand that singing isn't something most humans will do boldly in front of a crowd. But in spite of all the faults of humanity…I don't think I have ever heard something so enchanting as when you raise your voices as one." He sighed wistfully. "To believe in something so innocently and whole-heartedly again…"

Sam can read between the lines and nods silently, afraid to break the moment. They never talk about Cybertron, or what they were like before the war.

Bumblebee nods in agreement, adding, "He's a bit of a- such a bleeding heart," and finishing with "100% agreement!"

"Prime's going to hate that he missed something like that," says Sideswipe. He glanced at Sam. "Send me that tape, okay? And let's get out of here. I'm sick of carrying your femmes' shoes."

They make their way out of the mall in thoughtful silence. Sam suddenly starts when next to him, Sideswipe mutters, "I think I get it now."

He glances at him curiously. "Get what?"

The warrior shrugs. "What Prime sees in humanity," he says quietly. "Or at least a piece of it. There's still something…pure about your species, even if you have Decepticons of your own. Something we can never have again."

He turns suddenly and hands Sam the shoes. "We're being called in. Don't trip again. Tell anyone I saw that movie, and I'll get you back personally." With a cocky grin and a wink, he vanishes from sight.

Mirage turns and looks at Sam, a frown on his face. "This wasn't an isolated incident, was it?" he asks.

"No," replies Sam. "That kind of stuff happens a lot, all around the world, in every culture. It just happens here a lot at this time of year."

"Hm," says Mirage. And then he, too, vanishes.

Sam glances at Bee. "Well…think you can bring the car around?"

* * *

><p>This is the link to the video. My description did it absolutely no justice. If you have any clips of something similar from other religions or cultures around the world, please email me the links. I would love to do a follow-up on this chapter where Mirage looks into other cultures.<p>

watch?v=i0xy9sq9oWQ


	8. Ba-Boom

**A/N; Aaaaaaand Wheeljack makes a (cameo) entrance. Hoohah! Just to clarify; if some of you people have read Messenger, you may have recalled I referred to Que as Wheeljack in one of the earlier chapters. That mistake has been corrected- or it will be pretty soon. I'm running with them as separate characters, with very different, distinct personalities- as you'll see soon.**

**Also, a quick note; I love you guys who have reviewed and alerted and favorited this fic. I really, really do. And everyone else who has read this story and likes it AT ALL; I could really use your support right now. I tend to go wherever the fandom wheel takes me, but right now it's stayed with an Inheritance Cycle fic of mine because there are so many passionate reviewers on that story, and I really need the encouragement to help kickstart my muse. While I WANT to, I honestly don't know if i'll get around to finishing this story- or Revive and Messenger- if I don't get some more encouragement. If you have left a review, thank you, thank you! Each and every one is appreciated, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)**

* * *

><p>"What is that?" yelled Lennox, firing bullet after bullet desperately into the fray.<p>

"I don't know," Epps shouted back. "Wheeljack made it." He squinted through the scope, lining up the green lasers with the target's legs.

Will did a panicked double take and tore himself away from the battle, rushing at Epps. "Wait no no _don't_-!"

A sleek grey missile left the weapon at blinding speed with a hiss of silver smoke. Lennox tackled Epps to the ground right as the projectile hit the black Decepticon in the leg.

Plasma fire erupted from the target in a vicious heatwave that scorched the earth and seared the skin on Will's face fifty yards away, painting the battle in a dizzying kaledescope of colors as one fiery explosion burst after the other like colored fireworks- red, blue, yellow, green, white, blooming in the air like terrible hellish flowers. Something white sparkled and frizzled at the center of all the fire for just an instant, a pale flash against the twisting Decepticon's mangled form, and then a blast detonated outward like a blinding supernova, erasing every shadow and illuminating everything with a blinding white flash. A shockwave ripped through the air and through the ground that made the armored glass windows of the cars shatter and the ground tremble and sent the Autobots flying off their feet.

When the earth stopped moving and things stopped exploding and all the terrible crashing noise died down and he could finally _see_ again, Will sat up slowly, blinking spots out of his eyes. An eerie silence had descended on the battlefield.

On the ground next to him Epps stirred, rolling onto his stomach and propping himself up on his elbows. "What…in the _hell_-"

Lennox shoved him in the shoulder. Hard. "Are you crazy?"

"Hey!"

"You can't just use something that Wheeljack made are you insane?!"

"How was I supposed to know?"

A loud groaning sound rumbled across the battlefield as Ironhide slowly rolled off of his back, dust and scorched earth and rubble pouring off his frame. "I'm getting to old for this," he muttered loudly.

Will was beginning to understand the sentiment. "Everybody call in!" he yelled, struggling to his feet. "Get a headcount!"

Epps stood and rolled his shoulders next to him. They fell silent as they caught sight of the blast sight- the melted, smoking, charred and blackened bits of what had once been a Decepticon lay mangled in a good-sized crater, and the ground was utterly torched and glowing red.

"Huh," muttered Epps, shouldering the gun while Will still stood in shock, staring. "Say what'cha want about crazy," he said, glancing at the slack-jawed colonel, "but Wheeljack definitely makes the good shit."

Will made a vague noise of agreement.


End file.
